Senate House, Bloomsbury
Are we searching for more time or a different time?
These bikes are chained, the trees bare.
Cold, weathered brick, cold thick air.
Rays of rare brilliance and a wind that whips life into the fallen leaves.
We leap at the sight.
Of terracotta brick, of olive bark, a lingering patch of blue sky.
There is hope within this hue. There are technicolour promises of potential.
Enough of the grey; we are sick of the static.